


The Same Clay

by Notawriterjustalurker



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Flirting, Bad Jokes, But really these two are actually so soft together, Canon-Typical Violence, Claire Temple is So Done, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Late Night Conversations, Post-Season/Series 03, References to Depression, Sexual Content, Shared Trauma, Whump, and she’s also kind of a match maker, insults as foreplay, mutual idiots, team work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notawriterjustalurker/pseuds/Notawriterjustalurker
Summary: Just to be absolutely clear: Jessica doesn't find trouble. Trouble finds her.So it was only a matter of time before she ran into Matt Murdock.
Relationships: Jessica Jones/Matt Murdock
Comments: 45
Kudos: 88





	1. AKA: is that a knife in your thigh or are you just pleased to see me

**Author's Note:**

> Writing has been kind of hard lately, so I decided to start working on something totally new and a bit different for me! Seeing as though JessMatt is a tragically neglected ship, I wanted to focus this one on them! This chapter is kind of action-y and I'm not particularly experienced with writing such scenes so this is a bit of stab in the dark (pun intended) Any comments/feedback are as always, very much appreciated 😂❤️❤️

Being a P.I isn't always about following breadcrumbs — it isn't even always about breaking and entering. Although, most of the time it is.

Serial-cheats and general no-gooders, as well as Supers, on occasion, have a terrible habit of leaving their curtains wide open. So it's not Jessica's fault if she just happens to be hanging out on a ledge opposite; it's a free country, after all. And she's all about an easy pay-check.

It's on nights like this though, when the job is easy and the time crawls, from one hour to the next, that her sense of self-loathing tends to rear its ugly, jerk-off head. 

The cold bites at her fingertips as she wraps them around her camera and she hugs the warmth of a cup of coffee pressed between her thighs that she wishes was something stronger. For nearly and hour now, she's been camped out, waiting for the exact moment Mr Westward passes in front of the window wearing nothing but a pair of tighty whities. Or worse. 

It's taken much longer than it should of to track him across Hell's Kitchen, with his paper-bag wine and his shitty bunch of flowers in tow. Eventually she'd watched him disappear inside an apartment. Not his (something about shitting where you eat)

The babysitters. 

A+ for originality and flare.

And if that turns out not to be enough to get the divorce proceedings under way, there's always sweet little Lacey's penchant for Adderall, which evidently, Mr Westward also shares, especially when it's snorted off of Lacey's carefully manicured, glitter-polished pinkie.

After she's gotten the money shot, there's not much left to do except maybe procrastinate going home, putting off the shitty sleep she'll get if she turns in too early or too sober. 

Jessica takes a right on 10th, back the way she'd walked a few hours before, passing a couple of wolf-whistling jocks on the way who she threatens half-assedly with her middle finger. She thinks about dipping into a bar. Drowning herself in some cheap bourbon for it's familiar warmth and its time-diluting properties. But when she passes the obnoxious neon sign in the window that reads _'Josie's'_ and peers in, she promptly changes her mind. 

Instead, she takes a shortcut that's not actually a shortcut, through an alley that'll bring her out right next to Ali's pizza joint, who's double pepperoni special is arguably the only thing Hell's Kitchen's got going for it.

The ground has been in shadow most of the day and is covered in a layer of undisturbed, twice-frozen snow. Slippy as hell, but satisfying to feel crunch under her boots. It makes it easy to hear the exact moment when someone else turns into the alleyway behind her, making her pick up her pace and shove her hands into her pockets as she walks. 

But the footsteps continue to speed up, breaking into what sounds like a light jog. Then the echo of what sounds like more of them, two at least, fills the long void behind her, their intent, clearly less than good. 

Jessica's breathing shifts up a gear. Not because she's scared, but because she's actually been trying pretty hard to lay low for once and she doesn't have the energy for trouble right now.

Putting her hand on first rung of the nearest fire escape, she braces to jump. But it's too late.

In her right ear, an unmistakable _click_.

"Jessica Jones?"

"Never heard of her."

"The camera," a sharp, humourless tongue cuts her off. "Hand it over."

Jessica closes her eyes briefly and puffs out a sigh that she hopes translates as appropriately inconvenienced.

This isn't her first hand-me-the-evidence-rodeo of course. Actually, if she had a dollar she'd probably have enough money to move out of this shit hole city for good.

"I've had a long night. And I really don't have time for this." She takes a step forward but the scuffle of another gun being drawn behind her stops her in her tracks.

"Don't make this hard for us," the gruff voice threatens. Jessica finally turns around, spreading her hands wide and reluctantly above her head. 

He's young. Basically a kid, with these scared, grey eyes creasing from behind his scarf which is pulled high against the white puff of his breath seeping through it.

"Do I know you?" she asks impatiently. Out of the shadows two more men come into view wearing black hoodies and jeans. The smaller of the two has a funny walk, and is sporting a tattoo that's apparently visible from space across his temple. The other looks like he's compensating for whatever the smaller guy is lacking in stature. Six foot something of pure, military-grade reject.

"We know who you are." The barrel of the gun shakes a little. "What you can do."

"Newsflash, so does everybody." Jessica shrugs and then spreads her hands further, satisfied by the way the slightest movement makes them flinch. "So what..?"

"We need the camera." He flicks the barrel down towards her bag. "It's got the pictures on, right?"

Jessica makes a face. "Yeah, that's... sort of what cameras do..."

A voice jeers from the back. "We heard you were a smart-mouthed bitch!"

Jessica smiles.

"Did someone pay you?" she asks. The youngest shifts a little, itching nervously in his own skin at the question, while the man at the rear tenses. "Look, whatever bullshit he — or _she_ is feeding you. It's not true and it's not worth it." 

They're clearly not saints themselves. More like, hillbillies-for-hire, but Jessica can bet with some confidence that whatever douchebag set this up is worse.

The short tattooed guy is the first to speak, a smarmy grin painted over blackened teeth. "Seemed pretty worth it t'me." 

"Yeah?" She cocks her head. "Are they forking out for your medical bills too, asshole?" 

Asshole steps forward abruptly, baring his teeth. "Watch yourself, bitch. You ain't bullet-proof."

No. Jessica isn't bullet-proof. As everybody keeps reminding her. And no photo is worth dying for. Or worse, nearly dying for — because she really doesn't plan on repeating last month's embarrassing visit to Claire and Luke's place any time soon, especially if it's to dig a bullet out of her arm. Again.

"Fine. You know what? Take it." Jessica slips the bag over her head and holds it out.

They hesitate and Jessica thinks maybe they're disappointed not to be pumping her full of lead. Who is she kidding? They're probably not the only ones.

But Jessica isn't in the mood for a fight. Not tonight. She's tired.

 _"Jesus,_ what is it now?"

"How do we know you ain't got copies?" 

"I don't have copies," she says obviously.

"But how do we know?"

"Christ, I don't even know who you're talking about. Copies of who? Or what? The moon landing? OJ's confession?"

"He said don't leave no evidence! Or we don't get our cash."

 _"Who?_ Who said don't leave no evidence?"

" _He_ did. Now how do we know you ain't got copies?" 

Jessica shrugs vaguely again. Stupid criminals are the absolute _worst_. "I guess you don't." She eyes the first. Then the ones in the back.

She watches as they look at each other with quick flicks of their eyes, orchestrating a plan with whatever small shred of logic it's possible to weave together with barely a full brain between the three of them.

"Walk." The front man commands. 

"Where the hell to?"

"Your office." 

Jessica _laughs_. "With this entourage? Good luck with that."

"You'd better walk, bitc—"

"— bitch? Yeah, I know. Change the record."

"Do what we say," the youngest man says in an unnervingly calm manner. " _Quietly. Get_ in the car. And take us to your shit hole office. Because trust me, you really don't wanna give _them_ an excuse."

Right on queue, dollar-store John Wick, who's been quiet up till now, bursts into just about the most creepy, padded-cell laughter she's ever heard. 

Jessica decides she'll take her chances with the kidnapping.

"Fine." She moves a couple of agonizingly slow steps forward, stalling, although unsure what exactly she's hoping will happen. The men file into a line behind her as she glances around for something she can use as a distraction. 

They're a few meters away from the main street when something zips through the air above her head, a second later finding earth with a _clunk._ She barely connects the two, the tattooed guy now somehow on his knees, grasping at the back of his skull, and the wooden stick, doused in blood, rolling in a pinned circle across the ice until it eventually halts against the toe of other man's boot. 

Jessica's sure she looks just as confused as they do. She _is_ confused. But it's the diversion she didn't know she was waiting for. She throws her fist in a powerful arch, knocking the gun from the younger man's hands and sending it clattering over the icy ground. Then she shoves him. Drags him to his feet, enough to tear his collar and she throws him up against the alleyway wall. 

There's a crash, and then a shot, fired; ringing through the air before it ricochets with a dull thud on the brick to her left — Jessica ducks — looking up through her fingers.

There's a dark figure on the fire escape, masked from the nose up. He hops over the railing and lands heavy on the lid of a nearby dumpster. 

Fucking Matt Murdock. 

On the way to the ground, he launches another baton at the bigger goon who blocks it clumsily with his elbows. 

"Go," he shouts. 

Fat chance. Jessica doesn't run.

She rushes forward before the tattooed guy can find his feet and reach for his gun, kicking it away and planting her boot, once — twice for good measure, into his ribcage which sends him skidding backwards. Meanwhile, Matt's throwing punches like they're going out of fashion. A fist and then a fancy flying-elbow. When he gets momentarily backed up against the wall, he jams his feet against the brick and does the most unnecessary 180 ninja-style flip she's ever seen.

Ridiculous.

But there's no time to be impressed while pretending to be mildly annoyed.

The first guy is up again. Staggering on all fours. Jessica lands a fist on his jaw, which catches his nose, exploding in a gross shower of blood that peppers her face.

As she orientates herself she catches a smile flashing in her peripheral. Matt's enjoying this, she thinks. At least that's what it looks like.

The last guy standing finally crumbles beneath Matt's legs, his hands spread and shaking in an attempt to thwart the reign of fists Matt's unleashing on him as he yanks him up by the collar and slams back down into his face. Jessica's sure he's got it handled. In fact, she's about to tell him to let up because… something about Catholicism? 

But then a steak of silver flashes across her field of vision, too fast for her to fully register and Matt's got his wrist. Snaps it back with _crunch_. Knocks him out cold. And the silver glints in the amber light, still now, and three inches deep in the side of Matt's thigh. 

He white-knuckles the handle and the knife skates across the ground as he lands squarely on his ass. 

"Didn't sense that one coming."

"Shit." Jessica sprints forward. "Fuck," she gasps again. For emphasis. "You just got stabbed." 

"Yeah. I'm aware."

 _"Jesus_ Christ. Are your bat senses off or something? What's wrong with you?" She's furious because she's panicking. She does that. She's panicking because — well. She'll unpack those feelings later. "You're supposed to leave it in," she adds, exasperated.

"Didn't know you knew first aid." 

"I don't. I saw it on one of those crappy ER shows." 

Warm, sticky blood seeps between the gaps in Jessica's fingers as she presses on the wound, continuing to soak into the fabric of Matt's combat pants. 

"I don't really watch television." 

She yanks her scarf from around her neck and briefly debates strangling him with it. "We're doing shitty blind jokes now?"

He flashes her a grin which quickly shifts into a grimace.

"Sorry." 

"Hold this here. Put pressure on." Getting him to hold the scarf in place, she spreads out the fabric and wraps it as many times as she can around his thigh, tying it in a scruffy knot at the side.

"It may surprise you Jessica, but I'm not exactly known for my decision making skills." 

"Yeah I'm getting that."

"Jessica." For a second she thinks he's about to thank her or something — she definitely doesn't have time for that right now. Plus, he could definitely still die. She attracts that kind of thing. "The cops are on their way." 

Of course they are. "I know. I know. We gotta go."

She wipes a layer of rapidly congealing red off of her hands and onto her blue jeans which are now, fucking ruined, and she yanks Matt to his feet before leaping up on to the fire escape, swinging her leg over the railing and extending her arm for him to latch on to. "C'mon!" 

They make their way up the metal stairway with flashing blue at their backs. Jessica props Matt up on her shoulder and holds his opposite hand, supporting his weight. When they reach the rooftop they're both breathless. Her scarf has gone wine-dark, and Matt's lower face is stark white.

"How far to your place?" 

"Ten minutes tops, if we go straight." 

"I'm gonna carry you." 

"Jessica."

"It'll be faster." 

"No," he protests. And instead he hobbles forward at an impressive speed of zero.nothing miles per hour. It's excruciating to watch. Jessica bites the inside of her cheek.

"Look, you saved my ass over there. Alright?" Matts pittiful shuffle stops. His boots chafe against the concrete. "And now you're hurt because of it," she says. _Just like always._ "Now before you make me feel any shittier than I already feel, will you please. _Please._ Just let me help you?"

Matt manages a little extra way forward before they both come to a stop at a ledge where there's a drop of a few meters below leading into the next rooftop. He knows there's no chance he'll make it.

"You better not tell anyone about this."

At that, Jessica allows herself the tiniest of smiles. "Who am I gonna tell?" 

He shrugs and she's sure she sees him smile too. "Claire?" 

Jessica doesn't deny it. "You're right I probably will tell her." She puts her arm back around Matt's waist. Light, but solid muscle underneath her hands — Fuck knows how he's still in one piece after the last time they spoke."But we can argue about that later, pegleg." Jessica clenches with what little effort it takes, puts her other arm behind his legs and she picks him up.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. AKA: basic first aid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was meant to upload this yesterday, life got in the way somehow! Hopefully going to get another chapter up mid week as I decided to split this one into two. 
> 
> Thanks for all your lovely comments so far ❤️

Murdock is probably one of the more cooperative people Jessica's ever had to carry out of a sticky situation.

Apparently, he can take much more than just a physical beating. And Jessica likes that trait in a person, even if she doesn't say it.

When they reach the roof of his building she sets him down and he tests his weight on his injured leg before he feels safe enough to release his death-grip on her leather jacket. 

"Impressive," he says demurely, clearing his throat.

But Jessica doesn't accept compliments about her Abilities because it just feels like she's high-fiving herself.

"Don't mention it," she says, meaning it literally.

Matt peels back the layer black fabric from his eyes as if, without the mask, everything he says holds more weight. It does.

And Jessica has to admit, it's kinda nice to see that face. 

After a firm boot against the lock, frozen shut from the cold — Matt's door gives way, flinging inwards, taking him stumbling in with it.

"Oh. Uh, don't mind the lightshow." He urges her through and she follows him into the warmth, away from the continuous shotgun-blast of icy snow that's been finding its way to her skin through the holes in her jeans.

And boy, he was not lying about that billboard.

Place is lit up like the fucking Cirque Du Soleil.

"Does your lease come with a seizure warning?"

Matt chuckles, leading her down the stairs with a slow limp. Every surface of every corner of the room is saturated with colour. Flickering with hues of neon pink and deep, nauseating purple. "I'm told it has ambience," he says. It doesn't.

Maybe after a glass of whiskey, or five.

He makes his own way over to the couch where he collapses into the leather. Mask, and gloves tossed haphazardly on to the coffee table. "Thanks for –" he grits his teeth again. "For helping me get back." 

Jessica nods. The pain is probably kicking in now; like concrete poured into his bones, setting hard so that he can't move or react, or fight. Jessica knows it well. And once that surge of adrenaline fizzles out, there's nothing left that can shield you from the _ache_.

Matt hides it well though, and she's not surprised given everything he's been through.

The best she can do is start to help him untangle himself from his boots, wiggling the heel back and forth until the first one pulls free. She tosses it over her shoulder.

"Please tell me you've got some bandaids or something for this."

"Bandaids? For stab wounds?" 

She eyes him.

Matt clutches at the crease of his thigh as she removes the second boot from the injured leg.

"There's a first aid kit in the wardrobe," he points to the space over her shoulder. "Could you get it for me?"

Inside, tucked behind the heavy set of metal doors is that secret chest that she recognises as being not very secret at all unless you're actually blind. Next to that is a duffle bag that looks to be full of various medical supplies.

"This where you keep the bodies?"

Matt's forces out a low-effort chuckle. "Nah, they're in the basement."

She dumps the bag next to him. "You don't have a basement."

Dragging it up onto the couch beside him, he unzips it and throws back the lid, his hands scanning the same way a person's eyes would. Touch, tap. Methodical. Rehearsed. Each item, once it's found, positioned on the table in front of him, like a surgeon laying out his tools. It puts Jessica on edge.

"I'm calling her." She feels for her phone, which she hopes gravity hasn't expelled from her pocket.

"Who?"

"Someone who knows anything about stab wounds. Who do you think?"

"Oh, she's on nights." Matt begins sanitising his hands, filling Jessica's nostrils with a pungent and unpleasantly familiar smell of hospital. 

"So what do we do?" 

"She'll come by in the morning."

Jessica is pacing. Without even meaning to. She doesn't know if she should be annoyed, or worried or just generally baffled by Matt's lack of self concern. What's worse is that she knows she's probably a hypocrite for thinking either. "And until then? 

Matt shrugs. "I'll handle it." 

"You don't look like you can handle shit."

"It's really not that bad." The second after he says it, his shift in an attempt to loosen his belt causes him to suck in a loud _hiss_ of air before he puffs it shakily back out. On his forehead, a sickly sheen of sweat is forming, matting his hair into dampened clumps.

"This plan sucks." She walks another loop around the living room rug, pushing her knuckles through her hair.

Matt's voice is soft, raspy. Calm. "Hey.." He's looking at her — well not looking exactly, but listening. He has this head tilt thing that gives him away when he does. Daredevil is gone, sure, but he's still wearing a mask; the same one he puts on every day in the office. In the courtroom. 

Too bad Jessica's got a degree in Bullshit Detecting.

"Don't worry about me." He holds out her bloodied, ruined scarf, which is quite possibly the worst token gesture of reassurance she's ever seen. "A building fell on me, remember?" 

Jessica scoffs. "Yeah. Thanks, but. Not helping." Really not helping. She picks up the scarf with the toe of her boot and kicks it away. "You can keep that seeing as though it keeps finding its way back to you."

He mostly ignores her. Instead he prods experimentally at the blood-soaked hole in his pants.

"What if you've — I dunno. Hit an artery or something?"

"It'd be messier."

"A bone?" 

"I'd be able to tell." 

"Tell?" She's sceptical.

"I think so."

"As in…?" 

He directs his eyes roughly at her. "As in I can feel my own blood when I concentrate, the heat of it in my veins. Hear my ribs when they crack. Sometimes —"

"— okayokayokay enough –" Asshole's got a real talent for being creepy as fuck.

"You think I'm weird?"

"Obviously."

Matt smiles, and in her head, she takes it all back. 

Jessica wets her lips.

"I'm gonna stay a while. Play nurse." Because it's not like she's got anything better to do. And she feels bad. He wouldn't be here in this mess if it wasn't for her.

"You don't have to do that."

"I do." She gestures at Matt's thigh. "And these need to come off." She gestures at Matt's thigh again, his pants more specifically. 

The two things aren't related until Matt's eyebrows shoot up and make it awkward.

"Your bedside manner needs work, Jessica."

"So I'm told." She tightens her grip around two fistfuls of fabric either side of the seam and tugs sharply, ripping a hole along the outer length of Matt's thigh like his whole outfit is made of tissue paper.

Matt's jaw drops substantially.

"What, you've never had a woman rip your clothes off before?"

"Never that literally, no." 

But now that she can see, it's obvious that the situation in the leg department is well. Not dire, but. Not great. 

The hole where the knife went in is small but deep and bleeding at a slow trickle that rolls around the curvature of Matt's leg.

Jessica dons a pair of gloves. "I'm not a doctor but, I think you need stitches."

"You know how to suture?"

Jessica laughs. "People don't tend to trust me with anything pointy or delicate."

"It's easy. I'll walk you through it." Matt reaches out towards where she's kneeling and feels for her shoulder. "I trust you."

She's pretty sure he actually does, and she has absolutely no idea why but she trusts him too. Always has. 

"You really shouldn't."

Behind her is Matt's fancy open plan kitchen, dull and boring and ordinary. Not at all like Matt. In the cupboard to the right of the kitchen sink is a bottle of whiskey. She flicks off the lid and drinks until the warmth fills every inch of her insides, from her mouth to her stomach.

"How did you know that's where I kept the booze?" 

She wanders back and offers the bottle to Matt. "It's kinda like sixth sense. You know?" 

Matt chugs a few mouthfuls with surprising enthusiasm. Jessica takes a deep breath — and one more mouthful for luck.

"Jessica, you know you don't have to do this —"

"Shut up." He leans back. She doesn't look at him. "Walk me through it." 

~

There's absolutely nothing at all of interest in Matt's bathroom cabinet. 

No pictures of dead wives. No secrets. Just an old pair of glasses — squarish ones, and a few bottles of barely touched pain meds.

Matt taps his knuckles exactly twice on the door before he enters, holding out a towel and what looks like an old pair of sweatpants. "Thought you might need these?"

Jessica finishes washing her face, watching as the water swirls candy-cotton pink around the base of the drain.

When she looks up, he's shirtless, which she shouldn't be surprised about – it's not like he goes to bed in his ninja suit. That would be weird.

The thing that catches her off guard though, is that despite the fact it looks like Hannibal Lector carved a game of tic tac toe into his torso, the view is, for all intents and purposes, pleasant.

"Who do you think it was?" he asks. Jessica goes back to concentrating on her jeans.

"Who what was?" She scrubs intermittently at the brownish-red stain that's probably been marinating too long to be worth saving. 

"The men who attacked you. Who do you think sent them?" The bar of soap breaks sloppily in her hands. A piece of it shoots out of her palm at rocket speed and ricochets off the mirror above the sink.

"S _hit_."

Matt surpresses a laugh and then immediately apologizes. She turns to him, a moment later, dumping her jeans over the edge of the sink.

"I only associate myself with shining examples of human beings. So, take your pick."

Matt runs his teeth over his lips. 

She's being unhelpful.

But the last thing she wants is Matt getting mixed up in whatever this turns out to be. Not with how her diaster of a life has been going lately.

"It's risky, don't you think? To hire a hit on you." He moves to let her through the doorway and follows her to where she's left the bottle of bourbon on the shelf by the record player. "I mean, you're in the public eye, right?" he continues. Thanks for the reminder. "Must be something worth hiding…" he says it like he's interested. Like she's a charity case for his fancy Lawyer Firm to take pity on.

But that's the thing about Matt. He's used to going after the hero stuff — the corrupt officials, the burglary in progress. The criminal masterminds.

But in Jessica's line of work it's always the ordinary people who have the most to hide — the most to protect. The life they lead, the perfect image they set about creating for their friends, their family – so easily torn apart by secrets and lies. 

It doesn't have to be big. It just has to matter. 

"I would have thought you of all people would know a thing or two about secrets."

Matt cocks his head. "So you're saying you're not curious?"

"I'm saying it's not the first time."

Matt seems to soften. Initiating some kind of new power.

'Puppy-eyes.'

"Sorry.. I'm – I'm prying." 

She runs her hands through her hair. "No. It's —" _Surprisingly easy to talk to you._

So much so, she's forgotten she's been standing in just her vest and underwear for way longer than she intended.

"You should keep your weight off that." She points to his leg and the crude patch of dressing that's already starting to become stained with red.

"Yeah, you're right." Matt perches on the edge of the bed, puts his legs under the covers and lays back. Meanwhile, Jessica clocks the set of drawers in the corner.

She doesn't bother checking the top drawer — that's a sure way to embarrass herself. Instead, she tries the bottom one.

"Are you looking for something?" 

"Blankets," she answers distractedly.

She hears him laugh. "Do you always go through people's drawers without their permission?" 

She shrugs. "Force of habit."

Gotcha. 

A little checkered number. Fleecy. Soft. It'll do. 

When she turns Matt is frowning at her quizzically. "You're staying?" 

She gestures broadly at her lack of pants. "If you die in your sleep. I'm the last one that saw you, so.."

Truthfully, it really is less about him and more about her. Or specifically than that, her conscious.

But Matt seems to be kind of happy about it, which she supposes is a bonus.

"You know the couch is covered in blood, right?"

Jessica rolls her eyes. _"Smoooth,_ Murdock."

He grins, and she can't really tell in the dim light but it sort of looks like he's blushing. "I'm not — I just mean.." 

Jessica moves towards the bed, wrapping the blanket around her body like a sleeping bag. "Fine. But I'm sleeping on top of the covers. So, don't get any ideas." 

They lay and they say nothing. Her knees loosely pulled to her chest. Quiet, for once. Her brain, quiet. With the faintest haze of neon moving behind her eyelids.

She's asleep within minutes.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: I'm not a doctor, and tbh I hate writing injuries because I'm always worried it's going to be inaccurate somehow. I was kind of vague on purpose for that reason but I believe a stab wound to the lower thigh where it's mainly just muscle tissue would be okayishhh to deal with if you have some past experience of injuries 😂😂 fuck it, it's fiction 
> 
> Don't worry, Claire will be here soon 😂😂


	3. AKA: disaster buddies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is so late, sorry guys! Have Matt getting grilled by some beautiful woman as a thank you for your patience 😂😂😏
> 
> Edit: a couple of readers have mentioned they can't remember, or haven't watched JJ season 3. So just a note that Gillian (Jessica's P.A/receptionist) from season 3 has a minor role this chapter, mainly just to give Jessica something to chew on haha. Sorry if this causes any confused to people who don't know her!

Alarms are overrated. Nothing wakes Jessica up faster from a liquor-induced coma than the pounding of a fist on the glass pane of her apartment door. 

Works for her.

Add in Malcolm's irritatingly good work ethic and Gillian's ineptitude when it comes to using her _indoor_ voice, and Jessica's not actually that bad at getting up on time.

Today though, there's no noise. That's the difference. No distant yammer of voices that she's trying to block out. No smell of stale pizza hanging in the air.

The silk sheets aren't bad either.

She opens her eyes to the wooden beams high above her head. Bright, and unfamiliar, with none of the chaotic neon she remembers from last night. 

Matt's wrist is bent up against her thigh. And she's somehow rolled cosily into it, like she didn't have a whole side of his generously sized bed to herself. The sheets that she went to sleep firmly wrapped in a few hours ago are twisted in a messy pile around her waist and there's a cool breeze on her toes. 

For just a second, all she does is watch for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, (just incase) knowing, that she should probably move away before he wakes but at the same time too curious about the way his pupils move, still, under his lids — seeing what? she wonders. How does dreaming even work when you're blind? 

Then the soft hammock of his lower lip twitches. The clench of his jaw — the absence of warmth when he moves his hand. He's already awake. Of course he is.

"You're still here?" he says hazily as he stretches in a yawn.

"And _you're_ still alive," she quips back.

Matt smiles and it cracks like a beam of light across his face. So contagious that Jessica has to turn away to hide her own.

"You disappointed?" 

She pats around on the bedside table for her phone, which she left there somewhere, hoping that the screen will still light up when she presses. It doesn't. "If you keep talking, maybe I will be." 

When Matt speaks again, there's an edge of amusement in his voice. "Second drawer down…" he says, "there's a phone charger in there if you need one."

Reluctantly, she half slips out of bed to locate it, hating that by doing so, she's admitting how well he can read her, even without a pair of working eyes. Luckily the charger is tucked amongst a bunch of spare keys and an unopened box of condoms that she decides she'll find a way to tease him about later.

The clock on her phone reads 8.05am when it eventually powers on. There's three missed calls from Malcolm and a text that simply reads. _'Got a lead. Call me.'_

Maybe later.

She tosses her phone back down onto the table.

When she glances over her shoulder Matt's hobbling his way out of the bedroom and there's a distinctly comforting voice streaming through from the other side.

"How bad are you hurt–" The voice is breathy, mixed with the sound of keys jangling.

"— it's not that serious. I just thought maybe I should — "

"Sit down." 

Jessica would recognise that crystal clear concern and adrenaline-fueled efficiency anywhere.

"Claire — really it's — "

Claire marches him back through the door to the bedroom where the last thing she probably expects to see is Jessica sitting there wearing a suspiciously small amount of clothes.

"It's not what it looks like." Matt scratches his head, his fingers leaving his already messy hair in clumps.

"And what _does_ it look like exactly?" Claire casts a scrutinous eye between them both.

Jessica shrugs. "Slumber party?"

Matt chuckles and Claire narrows her eyes further. 

"You know what? The less I know, the better. Now would you please sit?" She points again and Matt perches obediently on the edge of the bed. Jessica takes the opportunity to quickly pull on the pair of sweats that he'd given her last night. "What happened?" Claire asks, sighing out as she pokes around at the edges of the dressing.

"He got stabbed," Jessica answers bluntly.

"I _miscalculated_ ," Matt clarifies.

"It's my fault it happened."

"It's _not_ her fault."

Claire spreads her hands either side of her hips. "Kinda sounds like it might be both of your faults." Her latex gloves snap at her wrists and both of them silently agree it's probably best not to argue at that. 

Carefully, Claire peels the old bandage away, pressing gloved fingers into bruised flesh firmly enough to make Matt wince. "Yep…" She sucks in her bottom lip after a considered pause. "You've been stabbed, alright." 

"I don't think I hit anything important." 

Claire's stone-cold gaze flicks upwards like Matt just roundhouse kicked her last nerve; the shadow of a puke-filled, eight hour shift sits in the fine lines under her eyes. 

Matt draws his lips together and goes back to saying nothing. 

"So what are you two like a team or something now?" Claire gestures for Jessica to pass her the bottle of disinfectant from her bag.

"I wouldn't go that far," Jessica murmurs, handing it to her.

Matt's lips twitch in agreement. "We work alone," he adds seriously. "It's sort of an ego thing."

Jessica almost laughs. _Almost_. And there's a lengthy pause where Claire's too distracted examining Matt to talk before she finally looks up at Jessica, flinging a blood-soaked cotton ball into the wicker bin beside his bed. "You two sound perfect for eachother. Disasters all round."

Well. She's not wrong. And she'd probably say something witty and disagreeable right about now if it was anyone else. But she doesn't. Because it's Claire. And there's this thing called respect, or something like that.

After a few more seconds inspecting she draws back and shrugs. "These are good sutures," she says, sounding surprised and testing the security of them again with her thumb. 

Matt responds with raised eyebrows and a look that makes Jessica feel weird and hot and clammy. "I did tell her but she doesn't know how to take a compliment."

Jessica scowls at him.

"Well for someone who can break human femur like a toothpick, call me impressed." 

"A lot of alcohol was consumed," she deflects, distracting herself by suddenly becoming concerned for the location of leather jacket, but instead, finding herself once again lumped with a bottle of something medicinal when Claire absently hands it back to her. 

"You know he does this though, right?" She pauses to give Jessica significant look. "Gets himself all beat up and then manages to find an attractive woman to administer first aid?" 

Matt's mouth falls open.

"I don't — "

"So if he starts showing up at your place — bleeding, broken ribs… stuff like that..."

"Call the cops, got it."

Claire chuckles. "Maybe just lock your windows or something."

He pouts. 

Knowing him, rating attractivness by smell or by taste or whatever probably isn't out of the question. And if she's honest, Jessica tries not to spend too much time thinking about it. Doesn't stop her wondering though. Wondering what? 

Wondering if Matt Murdock thinks she's attractive?

This is stupid.

"You know all that stuff is purely coincidental, Claire," Matt finally says in his defence, leaning back at such an angle so that his stomach conveniently flexes. 

Claire simply unpeels the new dressing from its sticky back plastic and passive aggressively places it down over the wound. "How big was the knife, Casanova?"

Matt sighs. "I don't know. Four inches or so maybe?" 

Claire nods, snapping off a glove. "I'm gonna say three because men over exaggerate." Jessica scoffs. "Luckily for you though, I don't think there's any serious damage. Soft tissue mostly."

"So he'll live?" Jessica asks cooly.

"Oh he'll live alright." 

"Thanks. Claire." Matt does one of those soft, slow cat blinks then attempts to stand, for whatever reason, which doesn't go well, leading Jessica to instinctively lunge forward, catching him as he stubbles.

Claire's hands are on her hips again. _"And_ you're gonna have some bruising, so that means _, take it easy._ " It honestly sounds like more of a threat than it does medical advice. "You're also gonna need these…" Reaching down down into her bag, Claire pulls out a bottle of pills, rattling them a few times before she dumps them in the middle of Matt's palm.

Matt gives a her bratty look. "Antibiotics?"

"I know you hate taking them, but if any nasties got in —"

"Sepsis equals hospital, yeah, yeah I remember."

Claire clicks her fingers in a delightfully patronising 'you got it' type motion.

Matt begrudgingly throws his head back, swallowing a couple and Jessica wonders how much is for show, and how likely it is they'll end up abandoned in the bathroom cabinet like the rest.

Mid-way through shoving everything back into her handbag, Claire turns to Jessica. "I suppose I should ask if you have any injuries I need to know about?" 

"None that require me taking off my pants," she replies quickly, drawing the string at her waist until they're tight — for emphasis.

"Good to hear." Claire sort of whirls, bouncy in her step as she always is, pulling on her coat which is mottled with darkened patches from melted snow; evidence of which is still sticking to the fur trim of her hood. "Now if you don't mind, I need to sleep."

They nod, thank her again, and she leaves with a modest wave of her hand over her shoulder with not even as much as a look back. 

A true hero. 

If she's lucky, she won't even tell Luke about all this. Not that she cares. Not that she has any right to. Not really. But she still hopes.

Having found her leather jacket, which she remembers she'd ended up discarding onto the floor next to Matt's blood-covered couch, and having discovered that it looks less than terrific with her sweatpant-leatherboot combo, she makes for the door. Leaving Matt and his now obviously bruised face, ribs, and legs to go back to his real job of being a lawyer or whatever slither of it still exists. 

There is one thing though. Which she can't help but ask despite her better judgement screaming at her not to. 

Because who knows…. Maybe he feels the same. 

Maybe he's still holding on to hopeless pieces of the past like she is.

"Claire said you were her first," she tests.

Matt's ears prick up. 

"You know. Her first... _'one of us'."_

"Right," he smiles and then stands. "Yeah, you might say that. She uh…." He runs his hands through his hair. "She found me in a dumpster."

Jessica presses her lips together. Hardly what she expected him to say, but for some reason, hardly surprising either. "Romantic..." 

He shrugs. "Yeah. Probably why we didn't work out." 

So that's confirmed then. Neither of them know a good deal when they see it — which is yet another thing they have in common.

"I'm sorry," Jessica says stiffly, drifting towards the door. "But she is too good for you."

Matt smiles wide and gently. "Yeah she is." 

Jessica commits to leaving, twisting the handle of the door before she can lead herself into another conversation that can only get more personal from here.

She slips through the door, moving forward but allowing her eyes to linger back the way she came. "I'll see you around Murdock." 

  
  


~ 

  
  


Jessica isn't usually praised for her fashion sense, and that's okay. 

But today, even she knows it's bad.

Despite that, for some reason she still decides to walk back from Matt's instead getting a cab. The snow has stopped falling, the sky is a crisp blue colour and she feels light. Feels focused.

Must be the fresh air or something.

Fresh air won't get her through the next eight hours though. Admittedly, she still needs to be medicated, and caffeine seems like the most socially acceptable option. 

The too cheerful barista who serves her at the counter reminds her why she doesn't do this often. After ten minutes of assaulting her with her customer service voice, Jessica points to the least complicated sounding thing on the menu, orders one, and then orders two more, which she's regretfully forced to carry the rest of the journey back to her apartment in one of those humiliating little cardboard cup carriers. 

Malcolm is somehow just behind her when she reaches her front door, stepping out of the elevator a short minute after she does. 

He's toned down the whole overzealous Men in Black look now he's actually working with her. Jessica's glad — it was really starting to make her look bad — 

Worse, even.

"Where the hell were you last night?" he asks. "I called three times." He pauses momentarily to contemplate her choice of attire.

"Why does everyone keep looking at me like that today?"

Malcolm laughs. "It's different. I won't say I like it, but.."

"My jeans got blood on, so." She hands him a cup of coffee, hoping it translates as the bought silence it's intended. But who is she kidding? He never gets the hint.

"Wait wait — Jess. _Blood? —_ "

"— Not my blood." 

Before Gillian can make daggers at her for being two, no, three hours late, she passes her the one remaining cup over the screen of her laptop as a peace offering. That's what people do right? Buy coffee for their co-workers to shut them up? 

But true to form, Gillian reacts by covering the speaker of the phone with her hand mid conversation and mouthing, "Is this poisoned?" 

Teamwork really is overrated.

"I wish," Jessica mouths back. She does wish, but maybe just with something mild. Like a sleeping pill or a laxative — she's not a monster. And in fairness, having her on the payroll lately hasn't been all bad. 

After Trish was sent to The Raft she'd done a better job than Jessica ever could have at keeping the hungry media vultures at bay, who, if they'd had their way, would have picked Jessica's private life to the bone.

She's a bitch and Jessica can respect that.

"Did you find a lead on the missing girl?" Jessica asks Malcolm as she dumps her bag on her desk.

Malcolm retracts briefly, clearly still more interested in her missing jeans or whatever. "Erm, yeah. Actually. I bribed some homeless guy up at abandoned Lazer park to tell me where she'd last seen her. He said Thursday, right before he uh...." Malcolm grimaces. "He nearly throws up on me."

Jessica tries and fails not to find that funny.

He continues, "so… he might not be the most reliable source..." 

"Thursday means a week ago. She could be out of state by now." Jessica points out.

"Yeah I know, I'm working on it," he says simply. Jessica knows he is. No one ever works harder on anything than Malcolm does when he's working a case. So much so, there's an argument that all he does is replace one addiction with another. Works for her though — and when the two of them work _together_ , like they often do when it comes to missing kids and all that stuff, they're practically unstoppable.

After moment of quiet, Jessica senses Malcolm shift tentivetivly on his feet again. "So...are you gonna tell me what happened last night? Or..." 

Jessica sighs. If he _must_ know. "I got ambushed." 

_"Ambushed?"_

Gillian's gaze pricks up from behind her screen.

"By who?" he presses.

"I don't know yet," she answers distractedly.

"Wait – if it's not your blood. Who — "

"I didn't butcher anybody if that's what you're asking."

"No. No, I know that. I just mean…"

"It's a friend's blood." Jesus, saying it makes it sound way worse. Jessica sighs again, sliding into the seat at her desk. "A friend who helped."

The click of the phone landing back on the receiver signals Gillian's approaching and most likely unwanted input. "This got anything to do with those three guys the cops arrested last night?"

Jessica frowns. "Didn't realise you were are you PI now."

"My friend owns the cocktail bar across the street from there. She tells me everything."

There she goes with the friend thing again.

"Because you're such a people person right?"

Gillian sneers. Malcolm rolls his eyes. 

"She heard the cops mention your name." As she says it, all Jessica can see is her eyes, scowling from behind her gratefully received coffee lid. "And Daredevil."

_Oh, Jesus Christ._

"Daredevil?" Malcolm repeats. "You're working with him again?"

"I never wanted to work with him in the first place," Jessica blurts. "He just sort of… turns up." It's true, he does. She never asks for it.

"I always kinda liked him, you know." Gillian faces her screen again. "I think it's the horns."

"He doesn't even —" Jessica cuts herself off. Nevermind.

"Am I the only one here concerned that someone clearly put a hit out on you?" Malcolm spreads his hands dramatically like the two of them haven't had their fair share of weird the past year, dealing with deranged super heros and serial killers just to name a few.

Jessica's expectations of people are low by default.

"Will you _sit_ down." She can _feel_ him jittering. "You're making me nervous." Jessica opens up her laptop, tapping in the passcode and opening up the photo folder. "I'm on it. Okay?"

Malcolm slumps into a sigh in her peripheral and Jessica begins to click, one by one, starting from last week, realising that looking for someone suspicious, in her folder full of suspicious looking people is probably going to take a while.

Gillian smacks her lips together. "Is he…. okay?" She's doing that thing that she does where she mimicks real care and human emotion, when actually she's just nosy as shit. Either that, or she really does have a crush on The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. 

"He fine, he's had worse." Jessica hears his stupid voice played back to her as she says it:

_A building fell on me, remember?_

Asshole. 

"Good." Gillian nods. "That's good." She clicks her mouse exactly twice. "You have an appointment at 1. By the way. They seem nice."

Jessica smiles tightly.

She spends the next 8 hours not thinking about Matt Murdock. 

Not even once.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another note for anyone who's unfamiliar with JJ season 3, Malcolm is now Jessica's business partner, 50/50, according to my interpretation, which makes sense in accordance to how the show ends. I won't say anymore on the context incase you want to watch the season 😂


	4. AKA: friendship is a gateway drug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's international women's Day!! So how about we clap our hands for
> 
> Women 👏supporting 👏 other 👏 women 👏

Truth is, even after all her digging, Jessica's still not convinced about who did it. 

Staring at photographs for hours on end only does so much good. At some point, she's just guessing. 

She has to get back out there. Ask questions. Knock on doors. 

_Breakdowndoors_. 

Whatever. 

Tomato _tomato._

Speaking of which, she's been putting that off, because it's been two days since the last time she saw Matt Murdock, and the image of his bruised face and his puppy dog eyes is still etched in uncomfortable detail into her memory.

Has he told anyone about what happened? 

Should she go and check in? That would be the polite, neighbourly thing to do, right?

Why exactly does she care so much anyway?

The guy's got friends of his own — they've probably got it covered.

But her brain only has so much available room, and most of that is already delegated towards dealing with shitheads, wallowing in self loathing, and thinking about her next drink. So at the end of a long day the last thing she really needs is Matt Murdock occupying anymore of it.

Going to see him seems like the most sensible thing to do. 

Because you know... it's probably nothing. And she'll feel better after. Cleansed.

She decides to make a stop at a noodle place that's just opened up across the street before she goes. The fact that she can't read any of the menu tells her it's authentic, which in Jessica's head translates as healthy, which she only cares about because Matt doesn't seem like the kind of guy who guzzles 16inch pizzas on a nightly basis.

Armed with two bags of food, Jessica catches a cab, flings the driver the leftover change in her pocket and reluctantly begins the ascent of Matt's stairs, knowing that the moment she starts, it's already too late to turn back. If he's in, he already knows she's here.

"Still alive then?" she says hardheartedly when he opens the door and greets her with a smile.

The top button of Matt's shirt pops open with the twist of his neck and the causal downwards pull of his tie. "Well, it was touch and go for a while.. but..." he takes a moment to showcase his thigh by putting some weight on it. The edge of the bandage is slightly visible through the fabric of his too-tight suit pants. "I think I'll live." 

Jessica smiles.

"You brought food?" he adds with a hint of excitement.

"Yeah. It's uh….well I think it's —" Jessica gives up after a short struggle of trying to remember how to pronounce the name. "It's food," she declares.

"Pho, right? Vietnamese?" Matt guesses correctly.

Jessica narrows her eyes.

"Yeah, whatever. That." 

"Nice."

"It's not because I feel sorry for you."

"Of course not," he assures her while at the same time, gesturing her in. But she only has to get a few steps inside before the weird lurching feeling in her stomach tells her that she's not Matt's only guest.

"Karen. Jessica. Jessica, Karen." 

This is awkward.

Wait, _is_ this awkward?

Why is it awkward?

"Oh. Erm. I can come back another... "

But just as Jessica's about to sprout an excuse for leaving before she even arrives, Karen springs up from her seat and outstretches her hand.

"Jessica," she says, dishing her a sympathetic look. "Matt... he uh...He told me about what happened."

He did? 

Jessica is so perplexed that for a second she forgets to actually reciprocate, leaving Karen waiting, and her hand, growing limp-fingered. "Sorry," she lunges forward clumsily to make up for it, pausing first to slip off her fingerless glove.

"Thanks for helping him get home." Karen moistens her lips before returning to her seat. And it's odd because she sounds…. Well, appreciative, and that only makes Jessica more confused. And more guilt ridden.

She shoots Matt a glare – a cry for help. But he's already sitting in the lone chair opposite them and Jessica's sure she's seconds away from putting her foot in it.

"Sure," Jessica shrugs, finally lowering herself to sit after she realises that she's the only one still standing up. "But I hardly —"

Karen seems to anticipate her answer. "If you're about to say you feel bad because you ran him into trouble. Don't worry, he'd have found it somewhere else." 

Ouch.

Matt lets out an audible groan but surprisingly, he doesn't bite. 

"What I mean is, I'm glad it was you there," Karen clarifies, "rather than –"

"I get it." Jessica cuts her short, although for once, she actually doesn't mean for it to sound rude. Accepting thanks just doesn't come naturally to her — accepting thanks for something she doesn't deserve to be thanked for is even worse. "My decision making skills aren't much better to be honest," she jokes dryly. But the line between Karen's brows only deepens with sympathy rather than lightening with humour.

"That's not how I see it." 

Matt scratches his head in her peripheral.

"I uh… I follow your work," Karen says carefully. "The Salinger case…. God. That piece of —" Karen breaks off and readjusts herself. "What you did. Catching him. Trapping him like that."

Jessica's smile is tight. 

Embarrassed. Flattered.

Same thing.

"Thanks, but, zero out of ten recommend. Worst photoshoot ever." 

Matt rubs his palm over his face.

"Yeah but...Trish," she says, "I met her. When I…" Karen licks her lips and shifts like maybe she's remembering something she'd rather forget. As it happens, having this conversation makes Jessica feel the same way. "She seemed nice. Like a good person. I'm so sorry about what happened to her." 

Jessica shrugs. Water off a ducks back or whatever. But she's way more uncomfortable than she lets on. Her skin's itching. 

Matt can sense it too, she thinks. He's too still. Too quiet.

Jessica feels naked.

But Karen's got that type of face that makes her dial back on her usual, obnoxious self. So instead of getting angry, or defensive, she just deflects. "Shit happens I guess."

Again, Karen just emparts another look of quiet sympathy and she means well, she does. But Jessica can't help but hope that maybe the ground will open up soon, because at this point anything would be better than being suffocated in pitiful silence for even a second longer.

"Karen brought me peach cobbler." Matt speaks.

His voice is warm and light. Like she's just been thrown a safety blanket she can disappear behind.

Exit to stage left.

 _"Mrs Kennedy_ brought you peach cobbler. I'm just the messenger," Karen corrects, turning to Jessica, her whole demeanor suddenly more bubbly. "Matt's got a fan club."

Matt responds with his version of an eye roll. "They're fattening me up," he says plainly. "It's sabotage."

Jessica resists the temptation to call him out on that humble brag. She's still recovering from being reminded of her emotions.

Instead, she indicates towards the untouched bags of food on the coffee table that are probably nearly cold by now. "Abs are overrated anyway."

Karen chuckles.

Matt shrugs. "And this does smell incredible..."

Karen seems to take that as a hint and stands hurriedly. "I'll let you guys eat." 

But Jessica feels a twinge of guilt. Karen was being nice, and after all it's not her fault Jessica's got enough baggage to sink a small yacht.

"There's plenty of food," she says. The sentiment is so foreign that she almost grimaces when she says it. "I sort of ordered the whole menu because nothing was in English, so...." 

Karen continues to look at her, bewildered.

"It's not pizza but it'll do, right?" Jessica forces a friendly laugh.

"It does smell pretty good." Karen lets her handbag slump from her shoulder again and sits, flicking her hair back over her shoulder and tucking it behind her ears.

Jessica passes her the takeout bag and she grins so sweetly it almost gives her toothache.

"Thanks,"

See? She can be civil when she wants to be.

"Beer?" Matt announces after what feels like a stunned silence. He's smiling now and it's already irritating her for no logical reason at all. She serves him a pointed glare as he passes her on his way to the fridge.

Next to her, Karen mumbles, "So, um. There's probably something I should…" and Jessica doesn't quite catch it over the sound of rustling plastic. "I mean, seeing as though you're here," she says, abandoning her food and reaching for her handbag again.

It's obvious she's about to show her something judging by the excitable swiping of her thumb across her phone screen. But while she waits, Jessica makes a point to cautiously sniff at her box of soupy-looking noodles, wondering what kind of masochist decided that wooden sticks were the optimal way to eat a meal consisting of 80% liquid.

"You know how to use those?" Matt asks, tapping her shoulder with the rim of an ice cold beer. 

On his face, that shit-eating grin of his.

Jessica's punched people for less.

"Of course I do," she replies defensively. 

The next moment, Karen is waving her phone screen in front of her face.

"Christopher _'the brute'_ Hally," Karen informs her. 

And what do ya know. It's the tattooed guy who stabbed Matt, except now the tattoo is one of his least noticeable features.

"I hope he's got good insurance," Jessica's says, because reconstructive surgery sort of springs to mind.

Both of them consequently look at Matt, who freezes mid-way through expertly twizzling a pair of chopsticks, raising his hands in a particularly un-catholic display of 'no fucks given'.

"He'll live." 

No wonder he spends so much time in that confession box.

Karen flicks left again. "He's got a whole bunch of priors. Armed robbery. Assault. Drink driving charges. You name it."

"And he's a hit for hire right?"

"Exactly."

Jessica's listening. And more than that, Jessica's actually interested.

Meanwhile, Matt's coordinating beer drinking and noodle slurping intermittently.

"What about the other two?" Jessica asks.

Karen reacts by nose diving back into her screen. "Brothers," she answers after a pause. "Robert and Jacob Castillo. First offense."

"Just wanted the paycheck." Jessica's thinking out loud.

"Looks that way."

"They admit who hired them?"

"No but, Hally can't really speak too well so…"

Matt pushes out a sigh and it's clear Karen's trying to antagonise him or flirt with him, or both. Either way, it's kinda fun to watch.

"I don't kill," he says. "Doesn't mean I—"

"Quiet, Gandhi, you'll ruin your reputation." 

Karen snorts. 

Matt pretends to sulk. 

"I guess they didn't sign up for two of us, huh?" Again, Jessica's thinking out loud. Karen finally remembers her food.

"I certainly wouldn't want to be them."

Awkwardly squeezing her chopsticks together, twisting and then ungracefully leaning forward, Jessica takes another bite. It's effort, but it's good. Like Chinese food, but better. More flavour. "How do you know all this stuff anyway?" she asks. Stupid question. Jessica's not the only P.I in this shithole city.

"Oh I have friends down at the precinct." There's a mischievous glint in her eye that's more than a little familiar.

"Right."

The same second, Karen's phone pings and she stops everything to tap out a reply with both hands. "Shit I'm sorry…" she flusters briefly. " I gotta go. I'm meant to be meeting someone.."

"24 hour job huh?"

Karen stands and gathers herself. "It sure is. It was nice meeting you, Jessica. Thanks for the food, erm…" she dumps the remainder on the table apologetically, waves bye to Matt, and moves in a whirlwind of blonde hair and kitten heels as she departs for the door. 

"You know, if you ever need a job or whatever." Jessica's joking of course, but it's a nice kind of joke for once, not a mean one.

Karen smiles and nods. "I'll keep that in mind." And just like that, she's gone and Jessica's actually managed to negotiate another human being without being an asshole about it. 

"What's next, brunch and cocktails?"

Matt's sarcasm cuts through her quiet introspection like a fog horn. He's already on his way to take Karen's place on the couch.

"Your misogynist is showing."

Matt smirks. "It's just nice seeing you being nice." 

"Did you expect a cat fight?" Jessica challenges.

"I don't know what I expected but it wasn't that."

So apparently the bar for Jessica's people skills is low. Who'd have thought?

"She's clearly competent or you wouldn't have hired her. I mean, unless you're —"

Regret. As soon as it leaves her lips.

"Unless I'm what?" 

Jesus. Where's that beer? Or maybe drinking more is exactly what she shouldn't be doing.

"You think I'm sleeping with her?" Matt questions, grinning.

Jessica takes the bait. "I may not have the nose of truffle pig, Murdock, but I know unresolved sexual tension when I see it."

Matt nearly inhales his drink. Then he spreads his body back against the arm of the couch, his thighs relaxed and open — all the hallmarks of a too easily inflated male ego. "Would you care if I was?"

Jessica pushes out a bitter laugh. "What kind of question is that?" she snaps.

Matt stutters. His legs close. He sits up straight again. "I uh, I just mean..." 

But Jessica's not jealous. This isn't what jealousy feels like. 

"We're just friends," Matt stammers out, and Jessica has to make a conscious effort to unclench her jaw. "We tried it once —" he continues. " _She_ tried it once." Matt runs his hands through his hair timidly which is a tick Jessica's noticed he does when he's talking about women in general. Especially women he's attracted to. "I wasn't in a good place and I fucked it up," he admits.

Great, now she feels sorry for him.

"So we're just friends." His palms run sticky over his knees. "Plus she's a great investigator. Her methods are a little different than yours, but.."

"Quit while you're ahead."

Matt bites his lip.

But before they can slip into another, even more painfully uncomfortable silence that Matt's probably able to read way too much into, Jessica changes the subject. "How's the leg healing?"

He slouches. "Good. It's good. Sore but, I've been meditating. So that helps."

"And you've been following the doctors orders?" She gives him a stern look, like the one Claire would give if she was here.

"They're more like guidelines, surely?" Matt grins.

But Jessica is serious. She's seen his medicine cabinet.

"Foggy made me sign a napkin." 

"A what?"

"A napkin," he repeats like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "It's a thing we do."

Jessica thinks it's a good time to pick her beer back up. "Nope, you've lost me."

"It's a contract. Legally binding. He signs the napkin, I sign the napkin. We both agree that I don't go and get myself killed. At least not while I'm injured, because according to Foggy— " Matt makes inverted commas with his fingers — "that's not a fair fight."

Jessica nods. Slowly. But inside, way inside, somewhere in the dark decrepit depths of her soul, she's laughing her ass off.

"You two are ridiculous."

Matt sucks air in through his teeth. "Yeah, it's been said."

The conversation falls into silence. And this time, Jessica can't think of anything to fill the void because she's too busy wondering about how nice it must be to have friends like that. Friends that stick around, and despite his flaws, look out for him no matter what.

"That reminds me," Matt gets up and walks purposefully back towards the kitchen without so much as a limp, picking something up off one of the chairs. "I got the blood out for you." 

He hands her her jeans. 

Her fucking jeans. 

Her jeans that she'd forgotten she'd even left here. 

Her jeans that could have been her whole entire excuse for coming here if only she'd remembered in advance. 

What's even more impressive is that on further inspection, there's not so much as a spec of blood to be found. They're expert level: serial-killer clean.

"I would have just thrown them out."

A prideful smile erupts on his face. 'Well, when you ruin as many shirts as I do, you kind of develop a knack for it."

Probably true. Probably not a serial killer. 

And if nothing else, at least Matt does his own laundry. 

So he's not totally useless.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. You want another drink?"

No.

Oh no.

She should go. She's been here too long already and something's happening. Matt's too close. She's too hot.

"I should get back to work," she says. "Not all of us get a napkin free-pass."

Matt grins. "I'll see you out then." But she's already up and making her way towards the door, shrugging on her leather jacket as she goes. "Hey, Jessica?" he calls after her. "When I'm healed..Do you wanna, um… "

In the short, but seemingly long moment it takes Matt to finish his sentence, Jessica manages two heart palpitations.

"If you need some help. Out there." He means the City. "I'd be happy to…"

"Your partner in crime? Really?" 

He crinkles his nose. "Mm. Not crime. More like justice."

Justice. 

"What about our egos? Aren't they…. incompatible or something?"

"I'm willing to make exceptions."

Maybe he is.

But Jessica doesn't do teamwork. 

Jessica works alone.

It's safer. 

Easier.

Less opportunity to get hurt.

"I'll think about it," she says.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
